


seven deadly grins

by h0nkycat



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, I like to have fun, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Still not very good at tags, They love each other, anathema is a weyes blood stan, argumentative/comedic dialogue, cowboys?, cw: marijuana, gabriel pops up, idk how to title things, it is stupit, kissin, please ignore the terrible title of this work, rated T for language and stuff, very light anathema/newt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:34:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24129766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/h0nkycat/pseuds/h0nkycat
Summary: "Maybe we can have one normal night, at least. Or as normal as we can pretend it is, anyway." Crowley set the glass down in a way that was bordering on aggressive, as if he was silently demanding more. The angel complied without argument."It hasn't been normal," The angel admitted. "Not for decades."***An Aziraphale-centric set of recollections regarding the development of a certain relationship with a demon, finding meaning in things he'd never considered before, and how sinning can be kind of therapeutic even though it mostly makes him a nervous wreck. An emotional rollercoaster about what it means to be a human.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	seven deadly grins

**Author's Note:**

> hello all!! I originally posted this work on november 5 of last year, but I'm bored and decided it was time for some sweet sweet editing (also it got very little attention and I'm a whore!)  
> idk why I wrote this, I haven't even thought about writing a fanfic in a literal decade, but I love this show and I love my boys. I would absolutely die for any comments/feedback because I would like to write more and I want/need to know what y'all think. also this is quite long and I wouldddd be sorry about that if it wasn't just a singular chapter, so enjoy 10k words of aziraphale just being a crazy person! I know that a lot of this may not be entirely accurate, especially when it comes to historical accuracy, but it's also a good omens fic so the source material isn't that realistic to begin with LOL I just really wanted to write something for these dorks. thanks for reading ily :)

***

 **I. GLUTTONY** \-- or, the meaning of food and eating it, too  
(Ancient Rome, 21st of October, 41)

Despite not really meaning to, Aziraphale kind of felt bad for Adam and Eve, at the end of it all. Those apples _did_ look delicious.

Before Earth (an absurd amount of time ago that wasn't even worth thinking about), in no way, shape, or form did Aziraphale expect himself to be so prone to Earthly delights. He was an angel, after all, and for what reason was he even put on Earth other than to banish evil and inspire good? He was _literally_ the Guardian of the Eastern Gate. 

He still often wondered why God picked perhaps the most... well, _awkward_ being in all of Heaven to oversee the beginning of humanity as well as the rest of it. He wondered as well if She knew he was going to give away his flaming sword to the literal first two humans _ever_ (that he already felt tremendous empathy towards), and it would also be nice to know whether or not She was still mad about it. Or if She was ever mad at all. Would be nice to know any of that. But _The Lord works in mysterious ways_ , or whatever.

And, much to his immediate dismay, there was a demon on Earth, too. A creepy, snakelike, somewhat annoying presence that was always looming in an adjacent corner. And, because Aziraphale was the way that he was, they caught on rather quickly.

It wasn't his fault. He never intended on becoming friends with Crowley, that much was true. He'd actually planned on just trying to avoid any sort of altercation whatsoever. Had any other angel been graced with his tasks, they definitely would’ve done more smiting, and maybe Crowley wouldn’t have even gotten all the way to the apple tree. _Yes_ , he had been put on the earth to endlessly thwart evil, with his flaming sword and all his glory-- but the sword had quickly left his possession, and the glory had been promptly swallowed up by the demon's seething remarks about where exactly the sword happened to go. And what was really the point of fighting when the being who was meant to be your mortal and immortal enemy was kind of just... _chill?_ It wasn't like anyone could know how much he actively enjoyed talking to the demon. He was sure he could just keep that to himself. God surely had better things to do than listen to his inner monologue. Er, hopefully.

There were not only just better things, but a lot more important things to pay attention to, anyway. The humans were a lot more work than anyone could've initially thought.

Unbeknownst (at first) to Aziraphale and Crowley, it seemed that the process of experiencing humanity as a whole was quite arduous. There were a lot more issues present in a human's life besides deciding which secrets to keep and whether your worst enemy/best friend _really_ required thwarting. It took a few millennia for it to really get interesting, though, and as time progressed, something very odd happened, and continued to happen. As the angel and demon received their respective orders and spread them around as they saw fit, they began learning things from people. They really were _so_ strange. It was a wonder how they handled any of their problems, but they almost always did. And then inevitably fucked everything up again, but still. It was never boring. Not for them, because each individual person had their own idea of what was truly important. There was no hivemind to adhere to. Free will, and all that. They were all so unique.

But perhaps the most prevalent thing in many humans' lives was their hunger. A lot of importance was placed on a hot meal, no matter who you were-- and Aziraphale wanted in. There was something about a tangible, human form that eventually just put things into perspective; a legitimate sense of physicality was present in his Earthly body that had never really been there in Heaven-- what was he to expect? He was fully aware of the amount of time he'd been allotted on the pleasant little planet, and boredom was bound to set in sooner or later. And, Lord, it set in as soon as he smelled fresh bread for the first time.

It was almost sad, really. The serpent had, by default, been his best pal (and his only pal, really), and even then, nothing had tempted him more than the mere presence of food. It had very rapidly become his favorite thing. The humans were just so good at it. He didn't even realize he might've had a slight problem until he was blithely sitting next to Crowley in Rome, practically drooling over oysters and inviting the other to join him in eating them without any second thoughts. Well, there were second thoughts, just not raucous enough to make any difference in his decision. _Are you sure this is a good idea? Imagine the look on Gabriel's face if he found out you just asked the enemy out to lunch_. (This was a double whammy when it came to things Gabriel would likely not approve of-- slimy delicacies and forbidden friendship.)

It didn't matter, anyway. He was unable to backtrack before Crowley agreed, and regardless of whether Aziraphale was sure or not that it was a _good_ idea, he was indeed very pleased about it. The pair's meetings had always been quite fleeting. They were both always so busy, or so they'd said. But regardless, Aziraphale always seemed to have enough energy to talk all night long, about anything and everything, and there was hardly anyone to share it with besides Crowley. He was the only other person who understood what it was like to be on the planet for that long. It was difficult to long for a relationship with any human, given how short their lives tended to be. Plus, it seemed that many humans found Aziraphale irritating and/or insane, which was, in all honesty, completely fair. This was another thing Crowley could relate to. Even the gentleman serving them oysters had to put in the effort to suppress an eye roll as Crowley very ungracefully slurped them down.

"Would it kill you to have some manners?"

"What if it would?" Crowley shrugged, a wry grin making its way onto his face. "Never tried it before. Don't want to take any chances."

It was a weird thing, to genuinely enjoy the company of your supposed enemy. There was something _especially_ weird about thinking their jokes about literally dying for the sake of decent table manners were funny. There was a sense of wrongness about the whole thing, an aura of danger. But what could be so wrong about friendly entertainment? That's all it was, when it really came down to it. No respective roles or duties. Just friends hanging out. Guys bein’ dudes. Plus, he'd just assumed that his affection for eating was merely clouding his judgement. It was hard for him to be upset when there was a plate in front of him.

At least, that's what he told himself, for the hundreds upon hundreds of years that it continued to happen. (And still does today. Spoiler!)

***

 **II. PRIDE** \-- or, pt. 1: the tale of angel and the crow  
(Colorado Territory, 30th of April, 1875)

It was an hour or two until sunset, and Aziraphale was uncharacteristically ready for a drink. However, when he heard the thwump of someone's feet landing behind him, his (rather human) instincts quickly settled in; a hand immediately flew towards one of his guns and he clicked it into action before turning around, fully prepared to pull it from its holster and aim. As expected, he was met with a tall and looming figure topped with a cowboy hat and shrouded in intimidation-- but what he did not expect was _recognizing_ them.

"Gabriel!" Aziraphale squeaked, his fingers retracting from the trigger as if his life depended on it, which it did.

"So sorry. Just dropping in for a second. Literally," Gabriel said with a forced chuckle that Aziraphale felt obligated to join in on. "Literally as in the dropping in, not about the just for a second-- it might be closer to a minute or so."

"...Right!"

"Just checking in to make sure you're not having too much fun." The archangel's tone was deceivingly sarcastic as he took a judgmental look at their surroundings, and Aziraphale sensed it.

"I mean, how can I not," Aziraphale paused to offer a nervous, airy laugh, "vanquishing evil all the time, and all that." He cleared his throat. "It's extremely easy to do so over here in America. Lots of options.”

"Oh, I believe that! There's just a few of us who've _maybe_ heard some rumors and are a little bit worried that you're being too... Nice?"

"Too nice?" Aziraphale blinked. Over the past couple of months, he'd had a major hand in getting dozens of criminals behind bars. Murderers, thieves, usually both. "I’m afraid I don't understand."

"Not that what you're doing isn't commendable," Gabriel assured him. "But if you're going to play bounty hunter, why not... Hunt?"

"Well, they're turned in, just the same. The posters say 'wanted dead _or alive_ ' on them," Aziraphale murmured meekly. Anyone had the ability to change for the better, in his eyes.

"To each their own, I guess," Gabriel finally responded with a tight-lipped smile, as if Aziraphale was the silliest person of all time for even having the gumption to be hopeful for humanity. What Aziraphale _wanted_ to say was _I don’t think I’m capable of killing anybody_ , which Gabriel would've most definitely scoffed at, or laughed at, or did his stupid scoff-laugh thing at, so it was probably good that he didn’t. "Most of them go straight to the gallows anyway, right? These humans kind of have it all figured out."

"Hmm," was Aziraphale's particular way of saying "no comment".

"Well, you're welcome to return back to London whenever you see fit. This place is kind of a dead horse," Gabriel said, looking around again with his disapproving smirk. The entire conversation could have essentially been summed up as: _this was a complete waste of your time because crime will exist as long as civilization exists, so there's really no point in staying in America at all or even coming here in the first place. And from my perspective you did kind of a shitty job anyway. Congrats!_ "Anyway, I'll leave you to it. Nice bolo tie, by the way!" And then he was gone.

It had been a little over a decade since Crowley and Aziraphale had last spoken. The angel often wished that things didn't end on such a sour note-- sometimes Crowley's words of _I don't need you_ echoed in his mind so loudly that he thought he'd explode. But, of course, every time he thought about it, he was forced to remind himself that perhaps things were just better off this way. Crowley was left holy-water-less and alone, as if Aziraphale would ever willingly hand over such a weapon. Maybe if they had just stayed out of each other's lives, things would've never gotten so complicated. He'd managed to twist it around in his mind so much that he started making himself feel bad for ever letting it get to that point in the first place. He should've been _thankful_ he finally had the time and effort to focus on his job without distraction or worry. (But, really, what was the fun in that? There wasn't anyone else to share it with. The worst part was, dining alone wasn't really the same. Anything so wholesome could never really be ruined completely-- it was still just as good. Just not as _fun_. But, once again, there were more important things going on than him severely missing his best friend and refusing to admit it.)

For example, America had been _wilding out_. The civil war had come and gone, but the reign of the cowboy had just begun. After the upstairs recommended he should pop by "just to check up on things" (which was their way of saying ‘take a vacation for God’s sake, there’s hardly anything else to do’), it took only a week or two for Aziraphale to find out that being a gunslinger in the so-called Wild West was... well, _fun_. Everything was so simple. People actually listened to him. And it made giving a good report back to head office even easier, considering the wanted posters were consistently abundant. _Things are going swimmingly! Another murderer behind bars! Yada yada yada_. Bam, another humble brag sent up to heaven. And, damn, was he good at it. Every time he stepped foot in the local saloon, the bartender would bellow, "Hey, there's our Angel!" and the shiny faces of dozens of others would smile and cheer. He’d even gotten acquainted with a local bounty hunter, who was honestly quite scary. (But then again, Aziraphale had sort of a penchant for befriending scary people.)

They called him Angel because, in the wise and poignant words of Margaret the bartender, "Well, he just _looks_ like one!" Plus, there was never another cowboy, near or far, who was half as nice. Let it be known that Aziraphale had never actually _killed_ anyone-- he had somehow just become so good at scaring them off that word had gotten around rather quickly. And if people feared you, they knew who you were. Once he ran a whole group of rag-tag bandits out of town just by shooting at their feet. It was hilarious, actually— all screaming and stumbling around as if fireworks were going off in their shoes. There was just enough precision evident in his borderline-silly threats that let his enemies know, "I could actually be shooting you right now if I _really_ wanted to, so it's best to be on your way." And it actually worked!

It had been a good time. He had to admit it, at least to himself. But as Gabriel suggested, it was time to move on. He was still prepared to stop by the saloon to see Margaret and the others one last time.

Only this time when he approached, a new face was plastered to the side of the building amongst all the other ‘wanted’ posters-- someone Aziraphale was definitely not prepared to see. Of _course_ , there Crowley was, now sporting not only a stupid pair of sunglasses but an _extra_ stupid mustache that curled up at the ends. Really in the Western spirit.

THE CROW. WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE. $500 REWARD.

"Wanted for that ridiculous mustache," Aziraphale muttered.

"Hey, I take offense to that!" He heard from behind him, and it took all but a second for him to spin around, gun aimed squarely at Crowley's chest. "Oof! Touchy. It isn't _my_ fault you can't grow facial hair evenly, Aziraphale, honestly."

"What are you _doing_ here?!" Aziraphale whisper-yelled, glancing over his shoulder just to make sure there wasn't anybody ready to prance right out of the saloon-- namely Margaret, who was rather nosy.

"Could ask you the same thing. Come to ruin all the fun?"

"I'm trying to _stop trouble_. Causing enough, are you?"

"I'm actually worried I’m not, thanks for asking." The response was just facetious enough for Aziraphale to scowl.

"Really?Because this sign says you’ve got five-hundred dollars on your head."

"And yet you haven't shot me yet. By the way, it's funny seeing you with that thing. Very _bad to the bone_." Aziraphale has to focus not to let Crowley's playful tone of voice settle in his bones and do something stupid, like making him smile or something.

"Can't possibly be as bad as whatever you’ve been up to."

"Oh, please. Robbing a few banks?" Crowley scoffed. “They hardly noticed anything was gone.”

“You-- I--”

“It’s complicated. Not really, though. Why don’t we just have a sit down? I can explain more inside.”

" _No_ , Crowley. They’ll kill-- er-- discorporate you if you walk in there!” Aziraphale said, before realizing he sounded way too protective. He tacked on a “Why don't you just leave?" for good measure, but it came out as more of a plea than anything, hardly giving himself enough time to be relieved that he was looking at Crowley in the flesh when he'd painstakingly convinced himself over and over that it was a very real possibility he'd never see him again after such an intense spat all that time ago. After the years apart, it was almost instinctive to push him away. He had forced himself fully into head-over-heart mode and it was going to take himself some time to wriggle out of it. "I-- I'll tell them all I got rid of you. Then _The Crow_ becomes someone else's problem." Crowley rolled his eyes, and Aziraphale could definitely still tell despite the glasses.

"Oh, please. Tell me how much more obsessed you are with _being_ _good_ since the last time I saw you."

"I _am_ good!"

"You're delusional, angel," Crowley sneered. Aziraphale had almost forgotten what it was like to hear the nickname coming out of Crowley's mouth, and not from a crowd of American strangers. There was so much more meaning behind it than just a reputation. Approximately 5,879 years of meaning, to be exact. "I _could_ go... For a teensy favor. I mean, really. Why should I help _you_ if you're not going to help me?" Aziraphale even bothered to ponder it for a moment, but eventually shook his head. Holy water could completely erase Crowley from existence. And even though they hadn’t really been speaking during the past decade, it was comforting to know he was at least out there somewhere, doing Crowley things. He felt guilty about even considering giving in to the other's request.

"I don’t need your help,” Aziraphale said firmly. “Besides, I’ll be back to London, soon. All of these people will forget about me sooner or later.”

“How very awful for you.”

“You’d do well to leave here, too. I’m very sure no one will mind.”

“ _Listen_. There are a million ways to pull of a bank robbery without hurting anyone. And I didn’t even keep the money! Well, most of it. Some of it?”

“I promise you, I won’t be needing that information. It'd do you well to just go away,” Aziraphale said firmly, before forcing himself to end the conversation by walking inside the saloon. Surely, Crowley wouldn’t just follow him in. He wasn’t stupid enough to enter a building that had a poster of his face on the front, right below a very tempting reward. But, perhaps, Aziraphale was giving him too much credit with that thought.

"Heya, Angel! What’s it gonna be today?" Margaret smiled, elbows resting against the bar.

"Oh, surprise me," Aziraphale said timidly. The mingling sound of slurring voices and the jangling piano was more than enough to stifle the gruff arguing of a poker game gone awry (which happened quite often), but not enough to mask the sound of the doors swinging open once more. Margaret dropped a so-called "mixed drink" that was essentially just a mug full of whiskey to the floor. The music abruptly stopped. All of the people had very quickly gone silent. 

“You’ve got a lotta balls walkin’ in here,” Called a gruff voice from the corner. Aziraphale hung his head and sighed. Couldn’t even get a proper drink in.

“Can’t say the same for you,” Crowley retorted. Multiple guns clicked, all of them pointed directly at him. “Oh, gentlemen, please--” But it was too late. At least a dozen gunshots could be heard, and once the commotion died down, all those who dared to shoot realized that no bullets had left their guns-- only small, red flags that all said “BANG”.

“What in the hell—?” 

“Enough fooling around! I’m here to challenge this man to a duel!” Crowley called, pointing at Aziraphale.

“What— are— you— doing!” Aziraphale hissed through gritted teeth.

“Come on! If you’re as good as they say, there’s nothing to worry about, right?” He grinned. Everyone was tense. Especially Margaret, who could be heard whimpering from behind the counter. “You win, you get your bloody reward. I win,” He paused, “...well, I’m sure we’ll find out when we get there.”

***

 **III. WRATH** \-- or, pt. 2: bringing emotion to a gunfight

Aziraphale could feel anger bubbling up within him. Not just mild annoyance— pure, real anger that caused his mouth to twitch. It was certainly not something he was accustomed to feeling, so he was honestly on the verge of scaring himself. He knew Crowley was just trying to get under his skin. Would he really do anything to get his hands on what he asked for? Had their distance over the last few years changed him for the worse? “Fine,” He muttered, standing up from his seat and causing many a patron to gasp.

“Fine!” Crowley repeated, walking out of the saloon in that stupidly suave way that was beginning to give Aziraphale a headache.

“I’m not sure you want to do this,” He said as he followed the other down the steps.

“Ohoho. I’m not sure _you_ want to do this,” Crowley threw right back at him, barely smirking as he walked down the dirt road. Aziraphale’s fists were clenched at his sides as he walked the other direction. The only thing he could see besides the blinding hot rage behind his eyes was Margaret in his peripheral vision, as well as the rest of the crowd that had poured out of the saloon, looking all too excited to watch the oncoming events.

“Someone count us down, will you?” Crowley called, hand casually placed on his gun in the holster, ready to be drawn.

“Three!” Margaret called, a shakiness to her voice. Aziraphale gulped. Surely Crowley wouldn’t _actually_ shoot him. That would just be... No. It wouldn't happen.

“Two!” Oh, _no_. Aziraphale _definitely_ couldn’t shoot Crowley. So, if for some reason the other decided to ultimately betray him, he could easily be discorporated. But he wouldn’t do that, would he? His hand tightened around his gun. _Fuck_.

“One!”

“Oh, _enough!_ ” Aziraphale declared, and all of the commotion went _poof_. The saloon, the street, the entire town seemed suddenly devoid of other people. Between them, a tumbleweed pranced by, unaffected by any of what was going on as it continued across the dirt. For a moment, Aziraphale wished that was him.

“Ah. I knew this would happen,” Said Crowley, whose arms were crossed over his chest triumphantly.

“Why couldn’t you have just left it alone Left _me_ alone?” Aziraphale cried. “I was about to leave! You do understand that anyone— any _thing_ from head office could just show up at any moment?”

“That never stopped you from parading yourself around this place like some sort of… parade… person!”

“Oh, no. This isn’t about me,” He said defiantly. “This is about you refusing to leave me alone! And being a wanted criminal?! I can’t believe you would even—”

“I’m a demon, that’s what we do!” Crowley said.

“I don’t understand why you’re even here.”

“Because— _urghhh—_ I got bored!”

“You simply _cannot_ ask for me to shoot at you in the middle of a crowded street because you got bored!”

“Well, I just did!” Crowley sneered. “Maybe I just miss—…" and for a moment, his expression is uncatchable, fleeting, _pained_. It hurts. It hurts to see it, more than Aziraphale ever thought possible.

“...Obviously you miss harassing me for something you’re never going to get. Why can’t you just understand? I... I’m not doing you this favor. I shouldn’t even be reasoning with you!” And the anger that he’d managed to keep pent up for a decade was finally spilling over, or rather he forced it to. “We’re _not_ friends!” 

It looked for a moment as if Aziraphale actually _had_ shot Crowley. The demon stumbled back, just barely enough to be noticeable. But Aziraphale noticed. And he immediately felt terrible.

“Yeah. You’re right,” He finally said, after a grating few seconds that seemed to last a lifetime. “Guess we’re not.”

“I’m leaving,” Aziraphale said, turning around and beginning to walk away. "I'm going back to London. I... It would be easier for both of us if you left me alone!" Crowley, despite it all, followed after him.

“So that’s it, then?” He said. “Hundreds of years of—”

“Of _what?_ I can't-- I can't do this!” Aziraphale cried. He was walking faster than he had in centuries. He didn't want to hear the answer. But when he glanced to see if Crowley was still following him, he was gone, and Aziraphale allowed himself a single moment to let his heart break. At the saloon down the road, dozens of people reappeared, unsure of how or why the two men that were about to shoot each other in the street had suddenly disappeared.

***

 **IV. LUST** \-- or, blaming it on the blitz  
(London, 4th of March, 1941)

"Lift home!" Crowley called as he trudged through the church's ashes towards his beloved car. Aziraphale, close to shaking, his _perfectly fine_ bag of books that he'd been seconds away from having a meltdown over, held closely to his chest. He still could not quite believe they were there, that _Crowley_ was there, and that he _totally_ just saved his ass. For once in his very, very, very long life, he was speechless, and yet somehow he was able to follow the other without even thinking about it.

The first few moments in the car were quite tense, as expected. It had been years-- dozens of them-- years of _Crowley would laugh at that_ , or _I wish I could talk to Crowley about this right now_ , or _I cannot believe he picked the name_ _Anthony_ _but whatever_. (Sure, he'd been very secretly keeping up with everything he could. It was a small world, after all, so it wasn't so difficult.) It had been way too long, and now they were reconciled by possibly the most grand display of affection he'd ever seen (especially from a so-called enemy), whether Crowley meant it that way or not. Which, he definitely did-- he had walked into a church to literally drop bombs on the people who were threatening Aziraphale. And on top of it all, he had cared more about the books than even Aziraphale had in that moment in time, who had completely forgotten they were even there because Crowley had just popped back into his life after six and a half decades of pure nothing at the most perfect time. After so many years of him leaving him alone. Being silent. Keeping a distance. Just like Aziraphale had told him to. His heart wrenched with guilt, and something else he couldn't quite pinpoint. And also because Crowley had a tendency to drive very fast.

"Thank you," Aziraphale finally said, very quietly, giving the other an anxious glance out of the corner of his eye as his brain was rampant with thought. "...Er. I mean it."

"Remember five minutes ago when I told you to shut up?" Crowley replied, but his smile was audible. The angel scoffed out a tiny chuckle as he looked away, overwhelmed with emotion. What could he say-- he was feelin' sappy.

"Wonderful car, by the way. Really fits." That was a compliment Crowley could take. Aziraphale wanted to cry. He had missed so much. Only knowing what Crowley was up to through rumors and such. It wasn't the same as being able to have a conversation with the other. He felt absolutely awful. "...I'm sorry I asked if it was you," Aziraphale said as he looked out the window at the debris, still holding onto the bag of books for dear life. "That did all this, I mean. I doubt even Satan himself would."

"Ehhh," Crowley said, lifting a hand off the wheel to offer a little wave of unsureness. "Wouldn't put it past him, but you're mostly right. Better phrasing might be, 'I doubt even God would', since She's the one who's drowned entire civilizations and all that. At least if it was Satan's work it'd be a first." Aziraphale ignored that comment for both of their sakes.

"I never thought it would get this bad," He said. Crowley assumed that 'it' meant humanity, and Aziraphale did mean that, partly. Was this all happening because God really turned her back on it all? Because even Satan couldn't think of anything better? Was this all just the worst case result of their gross incompetence? All three were equally terrifying circumstances. But it was the fact that they hadn't spoken in years that really grated on him, and it had the entire 66 years, as selfish as that seemed. And the very moment he finally convinced himself he was over it all, Crowley showed back up, literally risking his life for him out of nowhere. Sworn enemies, bound to Earth since Genesis, always saving each other at least once per century, like some sort of backwards quota. "All from an apple. Can you believe it?"

Crowley couldn't help but chuckle under his breath. "Oh, I'm not sure if you'll believe _me_ ," He said, raised brow visible over his dumb glasses as he pulled up _very_ abruptly to the bookshop in record time. "But I was there." Aziraphale was too tickled by the joke to notice that Crowley knew exactly where his shop was without him even having to tell him.

"Well," Aziraphale began, despite not knowing what else to say, finally looking back at the other and giving himself the time to fully accept that he was there. Crowley had risked a lot to be there in that moment, and Aziraphale felt it. There was no way he'd be able to just let the other drive away. He _missed_ him. Really, truly missed him. And now that he was actually there, everything he'd had been spending the past 66 years bottling up was now threatening to spill over. Crowley cleared his throat, interrupting his thoughts.

"I should go," The demon said, a few long moments after he pulled up to the shop (not very gracefully and fully lodged over the curb, thank you very much). His expression was unreadable, but his tone was unconvincing.

"Please don't." Aziraphale's tone was not one of offering, but fell more in line with a beg. The sirens were still blaring off in the distance, but the air between them was silent and still. "I-- come in for a drink. It's been long enough." Crowley slowly nodded, as if he wasn't sure the other was being fully serious.

"You can say that again," Crowley mumbled as he climbed out of the car, leaving his hat inside as he followed the other. Aziraphale hadn't heard him, too busy finicking with his coat.

"Er-- excuse the mess-- I didn't know I'd be having company. Obviously," Aziraphale said after creaking open the door. This so-called mess was a rather small pile of papers spread across the floor that Crowley would never know what corresponded to and never ask about. Translations, research, menus, et cetera. All he could definitively decide was that the angel likely had way too much free time on his hands.

"Even your chaos is organized," Crowley pointed out dismissively. He'd seen far worse messes in his lifetime.

"This is just what it looks like when I have too much time on my hands," Aziraphale sighed. Crowley all but burst into laughter. "What?"

"I was just thinking that." Aziraphale wanted to be offended, but he hadn't heard the other laugh in decades and it was beginning to weigh in on him that after many years of deciding he'd never see Crowley again, he was standing right in front of him after just saving his life, fully prepared to drink and be merry. And his heart was fully prepared to burst at the seams. "What have you been up to the past half a century? Besides swindling Nazis and all that. Or trying to, anyway."

"Longer than that," Aziraphale said, and stared at the other for probably a moment too long before he was ducking into the other room for the liquor. Crowley brushed the rest of the church debris off his suit and watched it fade into nothing before he took a seat, sinking into the immediate warmth of the couch. "Really-- what can I say?" Aziraphale began as he walked back, carrying two glasses with one hand and a bottle of scotch in the other. "The world's kind of done everything. Ever since the turn of the century there's been new inventions left and right. And a new surprisingly rancid world leader every couple years."

"That's not so different than normal, though, is it," Crowley grumbled. Aziraphale sighed as he filled both glasses halfway up.

"All with their particular brand of _bad_. And some of the things I've seen the humans come up with are very odd. Really makes you wonder what's going to happen next."

"I try not to think about it," Crowley said, already lifting the glass to his lips.

"Shame that it's our job." And it _was_ a shame. Crowley was almost wincing as the liquor went down, and Aziraphale decided it best to follow suit. It was nice to share again. "Would be nice to have _one_ normal day."

"Maybe we can have one normal night, at least. Or as normal as we can pretend it is, anyway." Crowley set the glass down in a way that was bordering on aggressive, as if he was silently demanding more. The angel complied without argument.

"It hasn't been normal," The angel admitted. "Not for decades."

"You're quite the sap, angel. We've gone without seeing each other for _much_ longer." That was true. But this time was different. Aziraphale had never actively missed him that much before. Instead of it being pure happenstance, whether they were both busy or just in different places for much too long, it was fully because Aziraphale had made it so. And he regretted it, but didn't know how to fix it. Crowley had to do that, too. Aziraphale continued to drink, unsure of what to say next. The past hour had sent him into somewhat of a tailspin. "If I thought you would've missed me that much, I would've shown up ages ago."

"It was rather good timing," Aziraphale said upon finishing off his glass, clearing his throat. "Not the— I mean— the whole bomb thing was convenient, but I mean more, er—"

"If it hadn't been now, you would've told me to bugger off again. I get it."

"No!" The angel said, but there was an obvious lie present in his tone. It wasn't that he _wanted_ to, but the obligation of his role on Earth had really been getting to him for a long while. Since he gave away his flaming sword, to be exact.

"I get it,” Crowley repeated. “We shouldn't be friends."

"But we _are_ ," Aziraphale said firmly. He knew that for sure, now. There was really no place to deny it. The two had saved each other plenty of times and were now sharing alcohol in a bookshop that Crowley knew the directions to despite never being inside of it. Despite not talking to Aziraphale for decades. "And things never should've gotten so... Well, like they were. It wasn't worth it." He paused before giving the other a brief glance. "And I'm sorry." Crowley’s face was unreadable— urgh, those damn glasses. The demon refilled both of their cups once more. What Aziraphale had drank already was already getting to him, and Crowley probably could’ve say the same, but it was a night worth drinking about.

“Better not let anyone hear you say that.”

“I just hope _you_ do.” To the angel’s surprise, Crowley simply shifted in his seat, slowly sipped down the rest of what was in his glass, and sighed.

“I’m sorry, too,” Crowley said. Aziraphale shivered. He wasn’t sure if he had ever heard the other say that, ever. He supposed he just never thought he could. And then all of a sudden, he was finishing off the rest of his drink, hardly fighting off the urge to be as exponentially close to the other as possible. Just to see if it would make up for all the lost time.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale blurted out, his emotions were jarring and he couldn't contain them any longer. “I shouldn’t have said what I did, all that time ago. I was afraid—”

“Aziraphale—”

“—and I thought I couldn't trust you but you-- you walked into a _church_ to save me after _everything—_ ”

“Aziraphale—”

“—and I didn’t even remember the books but _you_ did!” He said, gripping his cup so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. “And I—”

His cup clattered softly on the rug below. The only sound in his ears was blood rushing and the distant sirens, and he felt as though his heart was going to stop before he finally noticed the fact that Crowley was kissing him (very well, he might add). The warmth of the other seemed to spread throughout his whole body, distant and yet familiar, reconnecting the two in a way that he forgot was possible. And he was kissing Crowley back immediately, as if that was the only reason his heart was beating in the first place. It was hungry, and a bit ungraceful, and yet held all the perfection Aziraphale ever thought was possible. He relaxed into it with a sigh of pleasure.

This wasn’t the first time this had happened. But it was one of very _few_ times, and Aziraphale could never recall being this desperate before. The urgency was overwhelming. It was a wonder, with Crowley’s lips trailing down his neck, how he was able to deal without him for so long. Oh, how he wanted him. It scared him so.

“We shouldn’t do this,” Aziraphale whispered unconvincingly, knowing this would all end without a proper conversation and another awkward pause between talking again. But, God, maybe it was worth it. He couldn't keep his hands off the other.

“You’re a _terrible_ liar,” Crowley said, pushing the other back on the couch and connecting their lips once again. Okay, it was definitely worth it.

***

 **V. ENVY** \-- or, jealousy of the end of the world  
(London, 3rd of August, 2019)

 _Snip. Snip. Snip_. Tiny shards of white blonde hair flew to the ground as Aziraphale sat timidly in the barbershop chair. It was definitely not the greatest time to be paying attention to aesthetics, but Aziraphale was having trouble coping with the fact that come next week, it was highly likely the shop wouldn’t be there, and neither would Sylvia.

Sylvia was a tall, curly woman in her mid-thirties, and had been giving Aziraphale a bi-monthly trim for nearly five years. They weren’t incredibly close or anything, but she had quickly become one of Aziraphale’s favorite people, as she was full of compliments and always had a word or two of good advice. It was worth putting up with her nosiness (and she could get rather loud), but she could always be relied on for a good haircut. Perhaps a Sylvia-ism would help out his mood. (They rarely did in the moment, but often did afterwards after _much_ contemplation.)

“You’re so lucky,” She chattered as she pulled a few strands between her fingers. “Not a gray hair in sight. I got my first gray hair when I was _twenty_.”

“Ah. Good genes, I suppose.”

“Everything alright, love? You look like you’re about to go catatonic. Or cry. You can if you want— either one.” Aziraphale forced himself to smile.

“No, no, I just… have a lot on my mind. I don’t think I could bear to burden you with it.”

“Hm. Boyfriend problems?” Aziraphale’s ears turned red.

“He isn’t— _no_.” Sylvia wasn’t as good at concealing the grin that spread across her face.

“What’s his name again? Anthony?” This did not help. Not only was he worried about the impending doom that was Armageddon, but now his barber was teasing him about his relationship with Crowley, and _urgh_ , he was actually kind of _enjoying_ it.

“I can assure you, as I have many times before, it is... _mostly_ professional.”

“Uh huh. Well, not to get all in your business,” which was a lie, “I know you say that every time and all. But you can’t really blame a girl for having a hard time believing that.” Aziraphale was having a hard time not turning into a tomato.

“It’s complicated,” He murmured eventually after a sigh. “Way more than I can explain. Or care to.”

“Hmph,” Sylvia sighed as well. The haircut was essentially over but it was clear she was having a good time pretending to be a perfectionist. “So that _is_ what’s bothering you.”

“Among other things.” She had no idea.

“I mean, just from what I’ve managed to piece together, it looks like the both of you are just being difficult.”

“What you’ve pieced together?” And suddenly with that question, he was hit with the realization that perhaps he talked about Crowley way more often than he initially thought, and also he’d been going to the same hairdresser for several years, and she was fully keeping tabs.

“Er, hello? I pay attention to and care about my customers, Mister A. Z. Fell—by the way, you still haven’t told me your bloody first name which I _honestly_ think is absurd, you’re absolutely unstalkable online— when you speak I listen! Pete’s sake, I have to. Otherwise I’d talk everyone out of here and never make another penny,” She said with a huff, setting the scissors down. “All I’m saying is you’re obviously more than friends. I mean, you talk about the man as if you’ve known each other for centuries.”

“Millennia, actually,” Aziraphale grumbled. Sylvia scoffed out a laugh and shook her head.

“You’re so weird.”

“I’m afraid I don’t see your point.”

“Well… Maybe that’s because you don’t _want_ to,” She said, removing the little cape from around his shoulders and shaking the rest of the hair to the ground. “I guess my _point_ is if you both like each other, what’s the problem?”

“It’s—“

“Yeah, yeah. Complicated my arse. I think _you’re_ afraid of change.” Aziraphale pursed his lips and tilted his head in thought. “And before you do your little thing where you lie for the next five minutes, let me just say one thing. I’ve been giving you the same exact haircut for as long as I’ve worked here. I feel like I’m in cartoon land. Is this your only outfit?” It was. “Have you ever worn a t-shirt in your life?” He hadn’t. “I mean, when’s the last time you changed your cologne?” Never.

“I understand what you’re saying,” He said grimly. The truth hurt but he appreciated the honesty. He was thinking how much Sylvia would like Crowley, seeing as he was the one who avidly kept up with the current trends in a way that Aziraphale never could. “I just don’t think t-shirts are really my style.”

“That’s _all_ you gathered from what I said?”

“What do you suggest, then?”

“I dunno,” She shrugged, beginning to sweep. “Do something you wouldn’t normally do... Then do it again. Each time you try something new you’re subconsciously opening yourself more to the possibility of a love confession!” That was actually the last thing he wanted to happen, so he was more than content with his method of playing it safe— so he simply chose not to respond. “...Alright, or you could just try this,” She said, shoving a box of new cologne into his hands. “That’s 24 pounds.”

Aziraphale grimaced as he pulled the money from his wallet. He tacked on an even heftier tip than usual, too, supposing the world was about to end anyway— but it wasn’t quite confirmed until later on, when the tension in Crowley’s shoulders was grand and unmistakable.

“Something’s changed,” He said, anxiously shifting in his seat.

“Oh— it’s a new cologne. My barber suggested it,” Aziraphale said half-proudly, if not with a hint of embarrassment.

“Not you. I know what you smell like,” Crowley’s eye roll was not to be seen, but it was doubly evident in his voice. “The Hell Hound has found its master.”

“Are you sure?” Aziraphale frowned. _Damn_. Stupid apocalypse, getting in the bloody way all the time.

“I felt it. Would I lie to you?”

“Well, obviously. You’re a demon, that’s what you _do_ ,” Aziraphale responded, still a tad hurt but attempting not to show it, as more important things were now afoot. Unfortunately.

“No, I’m not lying,” Crowley said gruffly, now equally as offended but moving on. “The boy, whoever he is, has the dog. He’s named it. It’s done. He’s coming into his power. We’re doomed.” It was all said so casually that Aziraphale could only offer a quirk of his brows in return.

“Well, then…” He sighed, raising his glass. Stupid, stupid apocalypse. “Welcome to the end times.”

***

 **VI. SLOTH** \-- or, the art of post-apocalyptic paranoia  
(London, 10th of August, 2019)

So, due to unforeseen circumstances, the end times had gone as quickly as they came. The bookstore was heavy with warmth. The heat bored through the muggy windows with all its strength, and the locals passing by on the street were fanning themselves with whatever they could get their hands on. While Armageddon was gone and forgotten (well, mostly), the planet seemed to be seething in rage that there was still life there, as if the agents of Heaven and Hell had been riling it up. June seeped into July, and news channels boasted of the hottest month ever recorded in Earth’s history, and Aziraphale believed every word of it. The shop wasn't really created to withstand it. But, despite the heat, he’d been sipping on hot cocoa and lightly dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief as he poured over a novel.

A distant ringing pulled him from the book right as he finished a sentence and he sighed contentedly, lifting himself from the chair and walking steadily towards the phone as if he didn't really want to answer it. However, he did, and before he could even begin his little “we’re quite closed” speech, Crowley’s voice was booming through the phone. Aziraphale could almost hear his smile, like it was vibrating through the phone lines.

“Aziraphale!” The demon exclaimed jovially. “Bad time?”

“Of course not,” The angel responded lightly, glancing over his shoulder at his studies and shrugging them off more easily than anything. He’d been waiting for a call from Crowley, who had been off for more or less a week gallivanting around Europe— “for fun,” he’d said. Ever since the pair so cleverly deceived their respective ‘sides’, a renowned sense of freedom had miraculously appeared in their lives on Earth, and they (well… Crowley at least) intended to take full advantage of every second. Unfortunately, as he tended to be, Aziraphale was still quite nervous about the whole thing. What might happen if Beelzebub, or worse, Gabriel, found out about their little switch-up? How long was it going to take until their fear finally diluted itself into revenge? Aziraphale shook his head, swallowing as if that would help him to forget. “Not at all.”

“Well, good. I’m already here.”

Aziraphale’s head whipped around and he saw Crowley peering in the window and waving with one hand, his phone held to his ear with the other. Before he could respond, Aziraphale simply melted into a smile, because it was all he could do in the heat.

“Oh, alright,” He said, setting the phone down and moving to let Crowley inside. He didn't understand wearing layers of all black in the hot sun— even he was over it enough to ditch the overcoat and vest, as well as his bowtie, which was graciously draped over a lampshade. “Take your jacket off, you fool. You’ll discorporate over heat stroke. There’s some irony for you.”

“Is it really that hot?” Crowley said, the only indication of seriousness present in the furrowing of his brow, partly hidden behind those damn glasses. Regardless, he shrugged off the blazer and tossed it any which way. Aziraphale didn't mind; he mostly longed to know what was going on in his friend’s mind, and would likely be upset to know that Crowley was surely lingering on the fact that the last time he was in this place and it was this hot, it was on fire and he had no reason to believe his best friend wasn’t gone forever, and that he wasn’t completely alone. He shivered just thinking about it, despite the current situation.

“Nevermind,” Aziraphale waved a hand. “How was your… Vacation? Up to anything evil?” He asked, only half-kidding. Crowley shrugged halfheartedly.

“Very normal,” He responded, and Aziraphale had to wonder for a moment if Crowley was simply just… making sure humankind was okay. Not that it would surprise him. “Paid the bicycle witch a visit.”

“Oh, Anathema,” Aziraphale said gingerly, pressing his fingers together. He liked her.

“No, the other one,” Crowley deadpanned, and Aziraphale forced himself to hold in a hearty chuckle. Part of him was sad that Crowley went alone, but he understood— after the couple of weeks they’d had, maybe it was a good thing to bask in one’s own thoughts for a moment. A breath. But he sure did miss him.

“How is she?” He asked. He really meant to say _how are you_ , but good news was always good.

“Fine and well, I’m afraid,” Crowley smirked.

“Ah. Good.” Aziraphale earnestly returned it.

“Well—“ Both of them said at the same time, and Crowley’s grin flashed again.

“You first.”

“No, no, go on,” Crowley insisted.

“I was just going to offer some wine, perhaps?” Aziraphale said as he sidestepped to lock the door behind the other. He was very keen to sit and chat with his friend until the sun set and rose again, as it was undoubtedly true that things were different now. Since the beginning, the angel had somewhat of a soft spot for Crowley. He was a soft guy, that much was true. But he knew that Crowley was the last person he should’ve ever developed a soft spot for. And that soft spot had developed over time into something uncontrollable and uncharted. And now that the pair were being left alone indefinitely, they finally had the time to reflect on just how far things had come. They helped saved the whole bloody planet together and were now godfathers to a pleasant young man who just happened to be the Antichrist (or ex-Antichrist). They deserved a drink or ten. “I think I have a bottle open already.”

“Hm,” Crowley murmured. “Perhaps a… change of pace?” He hated to come across as unappreciative of Aziraphale’s extensive wine collection. Of course, Aziraphale, the poor bloke, had a pitiful habit of being what Crowley would call a “dramatic bastard”. It took one to know one, of course, and while Crowley was self-aware, he was thankful that his glasses concealed the roll of his eyes as Aziraphale sent him a look that seemed to be a mixture of offended and curious.

“Something new?” Aziraphale asked after a few seconds of silence passed, lingering on it a moment more before pointing a finger in the air. “Oh, I know! I have a brandy upstairs that should be _perfect_ about now—“

“No, no,” Crowley was flapping a hand dismissively at the suggestion as he sprawled out in a chair, and Aziraphale felt a wave of mild dread wash over him as he also took a seat, waiting patiently on the edge. “There has to be something you’ve never done before, right?”

Ever since the world almost ended, Crowley had been on a mighty streak of trying new things, managing to pull the other in at least _some_ of the time. It was never so much of a temptation as it was a friendly suggestion, or at least he framed it that way to appeal to the angel, who still somehow held onto his fear after everything. Crowley pulled a small box from his pocket, and Aziraphale’s eyes quickly scanned over it. He recognized the Marlboro logo and tilted his head curiously. Besides that, he was frozen in place, that same mild dread eventually dissipating into a vague sense of relief.

“Crowley, while your determination to find new things to do is quite n—“ He stopped himself before he could say ‘nice’ and ruin Crowley’s mood, and his brain instead chose to go with a stuttered “nuanced—“ he sighed. _Nuanced?_ Alright. That didn't make any sense. “You’d be mad to think I’ve never had a _cigarette_ before. I remember when it caught on like it was yesterday,” He sighed. “All those doctors proclaiming how good they were for your health and all that. Now that I think of it— was that your doing?”

It _was_ , but that was beside the point.

“ _Nuanced_?”

“Er. I hardly think a cigarette is going to be very inebriating.”

“But this might,” Crowley smiled that smile as he held it out towards the other— a slim and pungent joint, rolled with care. Aziraphale scoffed.

“ _Marijuana?_ ” He all but gasped out. Even alcohol was something he had to tiptoe into over his first few centuries on earth. He’d never even considered any of the other mind-altering substances to begin with, as most were unsafe and, honestly, downright grotesque. He’d lived through the sixties in London; he’d witnessed many a hippie speak aloud regarding their LSD-induced visions, and he would be a liar if he didn’t admit it was terrifying to even attempt to envision. “You must be joking.”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” Crowley’s grin was still plastered to his face, and Aziraphale had to breathe out a huff so not to break into a nervous chuckle. It was more clear now after the non-pocalypse that Crowley was quite genuine in his effort and not just simply acting on his demonic wiles. And it had always sort of been that way, anyway. That was why Aziraphale viewed him as a friend and confidant, and not a fiend, a tempter, a demon. Because, despite being all that, they had remained at each other’s sides long enough to save the world together. That had to have instilled some sense of honesty between them.

Unfortunately, Aziraphale’s sensibilities were still muddled with responsibility, and he shook his head. “I quite think I’ll stick with the wine.” He didn't mean to be difficult; it wasn't easy when your wits were constantly in a battle between love and duty. However, he’d tied himself with an unbreakable chain to pretending as if those sorts of things still truly mattered, and that he was still a righteous angel, worthy of God’s grace (if he could convince others, maybe he could convince himself), but that never worked. Especially not on Crowley, who seemed to constantly see right through him.

“You know you want to,” He taunted in somewhat of a sing-song voice, and he hadn’t even intended on his tone sounding so mischievous. Aziraphale shifted frustratedly. “Live a little, angel. You’re allowed to now.”

Aziraphale sent a hard stare in his friend’s direction, but it eventually melted off into a look of consideration. “Where did you even get that from?”

“Anathema,” Crowley answered plainly.

“Really?”

“Yeah, sure. Poor girl has a lot on her mind. Says she uses it to fall asleep, I don’t know.”

“Well—“ He paused, and pursed his lips in thought. “…It’s scary.”

“And you say _I’m_ no fun.” This conjured up an instantaneous pout from Aziraphale, and he huffed as he pinched the joint from the demon’s fingers.

“Serpent,” He called the other out, and just as Crowley suspected he was going to throw it away, the end was already burning away as he presses it up to his lips. Crowley watched a plume of smoke rise into the air, moving almost in slow motion towards the ceiling, up until the point where Aziraphale started to cough out the rest.

“Good— Lord—“ He sputtered. Crowley thought it was hilarious.

“You sure about that?” He said, pulling the joint back from the angel’s fingers before he dropped it, and taking a hit of his own. Aziraphale finally got his act together and sniffled lightly.

“I don’t feel anything.”

“After all that?” Crowley raised a brow, handing it back slowly as the cherry began exposing a delicate cone of ashes. Aziraphale eyed it suspiciously.

“Let it be known that it’s been at least sixty years since I’ve so much as thought about smoking _anything_ ,” He said, and made sure to go a bit easier on himself this time around as he began to inhale.

"Eugh. Square. Where would you be without me?”

Aziraphale couldn't help but laugh, but his voice was tight as he attempted holding in the rest of the smoke. “Probably off minding my own business, with a healthy pair of lungs, or something.” Perhaps even an untainted liver. 

“Sounds overrated,” Crowley said, taking the joint back once again. “You should put on some music. Mind if I browse?”

“Oh— I can’t have you turning another one of my good first edition records into Queen again.”

“I won’t!” Crowley promised halfheartedly, already gone to have a look. Within moments, Satie was playing softly throughout the building. “Ah. Not the _worst_ thing I could’ve picked.”

“You’re more than welcome to bring your _own_ music,” Aziraphale countered. “My favorite Mozart now turns into _We Are The Champions_ right at the good bit!”

“Yeah, alright. And then you’d complain the whole time,” Crowley sat back down, handing off the joint before leaning back. Aziraphale, beginning to feel a bit dazed, set it down on the table and swallowed anxiously.

“I’m not sure if this was a good idea.”

“Oh, come on, angel. You need to relax. This may be the only time we actually get to.”

“How long do you think it’s going to last?”

“Probably a couple of hours—”

“Not the _drugs_ , Crowley.”

“I don’t know. Could be years,” He offered. “I honestly think they’re too scared of us to try anything right away.”

“I just don’t know what this means for me,” He sighed. “Are we still meant to do… what we were put here to do?”

“Well,” Crowley tilted his head. “What’s the point, if we’re already dead to them anyway? There’s no telling what could happen next so I personally don’t see the point in worrying about it. As far as I know they just think of us as regular human beings,” He said, giving the other a pointed look. “And nothing is scarier to them than that. They probably think we’re losing our minds right now, trying to find a sense of belonging or whatever. Maybe we just belong here.”

“Right…” Aziraphale nodded, squinting at the other and leaning in just a little. “I think you’re right. Here together.”

“ _Never_ thought I’d hear you say that.”

“Hmm. What were we talking about again?”

“Uh, oh.”

***

 **VII. GREED** \-- or, the art of giving while keeping  
(London, 1st of November, 2019)

 _Andromeda's a big, wide open galaxy_  
_Nothing in it for me except a heart that's lazy_  
_Running from my own life now_  
_I'm really turning some time_  
_Looking up to the sky for something I may never find_  
_Stop calling_  
_It's time to let me be_  
_If you think you can save me_ _  
I'd dare you to try..._

Anathema was humming along as she spun around the bookshop, dusting here and there, eyes scanning over all of the interesting titles she'd never thought she'd see in real life. She’d become quite close with both Aziraphale and Crowley ever since the apocalypse that didn’t happen, and Newt found himself just going along with it. After all they’d been through, being friends with an angel and a demon was hardly strange. Plus, ever since Aziraphale said Newt could help out (and honestly, bless him for providing a job where there was no technology involved), Anathema had also been there nearly every weekend along with him, always with snacks and music in tow. She'd already brought along several of her own records, because in her words, "The fourth movement of the New World Symphony is great and all, but a bit too intense for organizing books, y'know?" Aziraphale would have to disagree, but she was a joy to have around, so it didn't really matter all that much to him what music was playing.

"Oh my god," Anathema coughed, opening a drawer to reveal several dusty books that looked as if they were untouched since they'd been put in the drawer in the first place. She lifted one out, expecting to find something crazy and unheard of, and was almost disappointed to find that it was a copy of _Harry Potter & The Philosopher's Stone_. 

"Everything alright?" Aziraphale called from his office at the same time as Newt had from across the store.

"Yep," She said, all but stomping into the office and holding up the dusty copy. "Didn't know you were a fan.”

"Oh," Aziraphale chuckled, taking the book from her grasp and running a hand over the cover. "Right-- well-- I was under the assumption, that when this book came out, that Harry Potter was, er..." He trailed off, realizing how stupid it actually was now that he was saying it out loud, "well, a real person. and so once I realized it was fiction, I kind of forgot about it," He admitted.

"Hm," Anathema's lips curled into a smile as she flipped the cover open. Despite the dust, it was in tip-top condition. It looked just like the book she had as a kid. Her finger trailed down the first page, a painted nail marveling at the publishing date. "Is this a first edition?"

"Oh, I'm sure it is. Why?"

" _Dude_ ," Newt's head popped in. "Harry Potter fans are _bonkers_. A first edition is probably worth at least a hundred pounds."

"Try _hundreds_. Plural," Anathema added.

"Really?" Newt and Aziraphale spoke at the same time once again.

"Does this happen a lot? You buying a book and then finding out it's fiction, I mean." Aziraphale looked embarrassed.

"I'm afraid so..."

"Didn't you live throughout _all_ of history, though? Wouldn't you have known if the person the book was about is real or fake?" Newt asked.

"Well, yes, but what if I missed something?"

Anathema pursed her lips as she set the book down, tilting her head in thought. "Have you ever thought about Marie Kondo-ing this place a little?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Yeah, when was the last time you kind of... cleared this place out a bit?" Newt chimed in. Aziraphale was quickly becoming flustered.

"I didn't realize it was a problem."

"It's not a problem!" Anathema said, earnestly. "I just mean... Well," She said, gesturing vaguely to his desk. "You have an entire stack right here dedicated to the same menu," She started. "And _these_ don't look like they've been touched since the nineteenth century," She said, pointing to a separate stack that mostly just contained old Welsh studies about various birds that he'd never really gotten around to translating. There were stains littered across the top page, in the shape of little rings from his mug being sat on it a few too many times. "And--"

" _Alright_ ," Aziraphale pleaded.

"We can help you," Anathema promised. "And you can probably make a lot of money."

"I just-- well-- it's not about the money. I _like_ having it. Besides, this place is essentially just storage space..."

"But it doesn't have to be," Newt shrugged. "Nobody really needs a first edition of The Symposium. If they want to read The Symposium, they'll just get a new copy. Y'know?"

"He's right. I found this in a _drawer_ ," Anathema added. "Not even on display. Imagine if we dug out all the fiction novels you have and sold them. You could have even more storage space." Anathema walked back over to the drawer, gently retrieving another book and blowing off the dust before examining the cover. "Plenty of room for all the menus you could possibly want! And plenty of money to tip that delivery guy with."

"And way more business," Newt added.

"They're calling you a hoarder," Crowley finally piped up from his spot on the couch, having been engrossed in the record for most of their conversation.

"I am not!" Anathema protested. 

"Money just isn't a concern of mine," Aziraphale sighed. "But perhaps you're right... It could do with a little updating. It _is_ centuries old."

"Well..." Anathema sat down with a light huff, rife with ideas as she twisted a lock of hair between her fingers. "You have customers sometimes, right? I mean, you're willing to sell a book to someone if they walk up to you and ask to buy it."

"If they seem passionate enough about it, yes.”

"So why not give these away?" Newt asked, raising a brow. Anathema began to smile.

"As long as they promise to give them back," She continued, giving the angel a pointed look. "Like--"

"Like a library," Aziraphale gasped.

"Obviously none of your super special stuff, but all of the fiction? We could organize everything, give it its own shelf, Newt and I can help you keep track of everything," She said. "On paper, obviously.”

Aziraphale was having trouble responding, but there was a smile threatening his features. His mind was already spinning with thoughts on how to reorganize. "That's-- that's--"

"That's angel speak for 'why didn't I think of that first'," Crowley grinned. 

“I suppose I just never thought about it,” He said. “I always just assumed there was too much sentimental value in here.” But wasn’t the point of a bookshop to bring the joy of reading to as many people as possible? Newt was right— little to no people were fishing for any of his important philosophy books. There were numerous novels hidden away that had collected dust for much too long. Newt and Anathema shared a look.

“This is going to be a really good time,” Anathema smiled. Somewhere in the background, the vocals on the record began to warp.

 _Don’t stop me, don’t stop me_  
_Have a good time, good time_  
_Don’t stop me, don’t stop me_  
_Oh, I’m burnin’ through the sky, yeah_ _  
Two hundred degrees, that’s why they call me Mr. Fahrenheit_

“Noooo,” Anathema cried. “Crowley! Not my Titanic Rising!”


End file.
